


When you open your mouth, I swear I hear the words of God

by Baryshnikov



Series: Where Monsters lie [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cannibalism, Coercion, Devotion, M/M, POV Second Person, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stream of Consciousness, Unhealthy Relationships, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: For he is your saviour.





	When you open your mouth, I swear I hear the words of God

**Author's Note:**

> From Harry's perspective

For he is your saviour. 

He tells you so, always quiet and gentle and sweet. Tells you when he asks you to get to your knees. You always do. The wood of the floor digs into your skin, but you are used to it now. Used to the fact that your knees are always purple and blue and green and yellow, used to fact that you ache, used to the fact it hurts. But that doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You’d like to say it is degrading to be on your knees, to have to look up at him, whilst he looks down. It is not degrading. It is exalting. To have your eyes meet in the middle, and you to feel as though you are looking upon the divine. He holds your life in his hands, so you are respectful, not that you’d dream of being otherwise. The longer you spend on your knees, the more he feels like he is your Creator and your Redeemer, he is everything you have been waiting for. He understands. He knows that as much as he is your god, you are his follower, and he has responsibilities to you. So, he is always so gentle, tracing his fingers over your face as though he were blind. Down your cheek and under your chin, with his thumb, he raises you to look at him, and you do, even though his visage burns your eyes, the white halo stinging the very depths of your brain. There is always an aura around him, blurring his edges and making it look like he lives amongst the stars. In all the languages of humanity, there is not a single word that can describe what you feel for him. The ache within you is not mere love, because he is far more than your lover.

For he is your saviour. 

He runs his fingers through your hair, so careful, twirling the mess like he does not see it. You lean into his touch because it feels good to not be feared. Most people don’t touch you, so you crave it when it is offered, you crave everything that he offers you, whether others would like it or not. All because you know, everything he does for you, he does out of kindness. Maybe it is not the kindness that people would recognise, but it is kindness, nonetheless; a sort of love between mentor and prodigy. For endures suffering for you, he makes his hands bleed for you; nails digging into his palm until the skin breaks apart and the red oozes out. That is when you close your eyes, for you know what he is going to give you, he has been promising you such an affusion for so long. But when he does not touch you, you open them again, fearing that perhaps you read him wrong. That maybe he is not going to save you yet. Just as you look up though, you see his clenched hand, and the blood dribbling from the fist. Three drops fall onto your forehead. Drip. Drip. Drip. It is warm, running down your skin, and as it slides you know you have been blessed. That by this very act something has shifted between the two of you, a newness infects the air, a seed that has been planted and it will grow according to his whims, and his whims are divine. With the simple movements of his hands, you are somehow _more_ than redeemed, _more_ than just purified. As he runs his bloodied palm down your face, leaving a long red line from your hair to your chin, it is as though you have been reborn. Become a blessed version of yourself, one that is his equal, one that he is proud to have in his soul. His hands do not stop at your chin though, once again they touch you, all of you. Fingers tracing the outlines and filling in the spaces with speckled shades of red. It isn’t long before he’s circling your lips, his nails running from corner to corner. They push your mouth open and you don’t stop them. Instead, you just swallow his fingers, not caring that the tips scrape the back of your throat, not caring that most people would be appalled; not caring because you are so grateful to give your life to him. 

For he is your saviour. 

_What is your confession?_ He asks as though he cares. You know what it is, it hovers just beneath your skin, hovering and buzzing and threatening to eat you alive. You love him. More than mere devotion, more than worship, more than any fervour; you’d do anything he asked. Anything at all. Other than this. It is one thing to be in love in the privacy of your head. To lie alone at night wrapped in the dark, and to think of him lying beside you, to think of his fingers entwined with yours, kissing him in the most innocent of ways, that never ceases to make you blush. It is quite another thing to tell him that, to share what you want, what you’ve always wanted, when he is watching you with his eyes as dark as the wood beneath your knees. But he knows when you’re lying. He always knows. There is nothing that he doesn’t know. So you say. _Him_. That is your confession. _Him_. In every perfect monstrous way. He smiles that smile made of angel’s tears, and asks you what you _really_ want. Of course, you feign confusion, pretend that there is nothing in the world that you want more than to look on his face. You’re lying. He asks you again, and you can feel something so cold in his voice, something snake-like that curls around your neck and threatens to choke you. He wants the truth. You feel your mouth moving then, sounds that you assume are words spilling out, confessions so dark that the sun that splayed through the windows, dims. So dark that the room falls to shadows and you can almost feel the hands of forsaken souls grabbing at your skin and dragging you through the floorboards to the second circle of hell. He only smiles. He says that you’re forgiven, that your soul is light, and the burden has been shed, but if you want to taste the eight circles of hell, he’ll happily be your guide. 

For he is your saviour. 

You are not expecting him to, because he never does, but he kisses you. His lips are sour, like grapefruit, they sting your mouth. That doesn’t mean you want him to stop though. Sourness keeps you awake, keeps you from drifting into his dreamy aura, never to wake again. He says he can lift your soul right out of your body if you let him eat you. It is a jarring thought to have between the sourness of his tongue and the faint glimmers of sun on your back. He continues though. If you let him eat your body like it is bread, and drink your blood as though it is wine; if you let him truly consume you, then you will be free. Perhaps it is naïve to believe him, but he speaks with so much certainty, with so much knowledge that you would almost think he has been eaten by someone himself. That he knows what it is like to be chewed and swallowed, devoured piece by piece. He asks for your permission and you give it to him. Then he is smiling and lifting you from your knees. He continues to kiss you, like that in itself could be salvation, though his mouth is still acetic and mordant like there is barbed wire hiding under his tongue. Though it does not cut your mouth, it hurts in a way you’ve never experienced before, a sort of pleasure-pain that gnaws its way into your bones. All of a sudden, he’s pushing you flat on your back. Curling his spine to lean over you, to kiss you and murmur such beautiful things, such wonderful perfect things about heaven and its wonders, and about angels and their virtues. He speaks of a world of white, the single simple purity of emptiness, an unending pestilence of joy. He hypnotises you with honied words, so you do not feel the first slit in your skin. So you do not struggle until he is deep enough that it doesn’t matter. You still struggle though, still thrash and kick and beg him to make all the pain go away. He calms you with his mouth, licking along the slit, tasting your blood, and smearing the red in a zig-zag across your ribs. You wish you weren’t weak, that you weren’t crying, that you weren’t choking on your own saliva as you watched something that was indescribably monstrous. You are though, and you do watch. You see his mouth moving and his tongue scraping through your body. It feels warm and strange, like running your fingers through a pool of tepid water. It is disgusting, but it makes you feel holy, as though he practices a new type of worship that is so bleak and human. His body on yours, his body inside yours. He venerates you by coating himself with your body, by cleansing himself in your blood. When he eats you – because that is what he does – the world shifts, but your perceptions do not change. _He_ does not change.

For he is your saviour. 

Great people have said that dying is an art. You agree. But you are not an artist, and your death is not beautiful, it is not miraculous or fantastic. There are no bright lights shining down and lifting your soul to the heavens, no choir of angels to meet you at heaven’s golden gate. There are none of these things because you are merely dead. All his promises were but words, and all his actions but painful imitations of the angels he had known. He offered so much, and gave so little, and yet you do not hate him. As you lie there in the agony of simple death, the rays of sun now fading as his teeth dig deeper into your heart, chewing you so slowly; you know that he has given you something much more authentic: a genuine death. Where you believed the best thing in the world would be the stand amongst the silver stars, to stare down at the earth from eternal paradise, he has shown you, that that is not a possibility. That all must die and be returned to the black earth. You hope he buries you, takes the time to dig through the soil and lay you down, cover your grave in flowers and talk to you. He will not forget you, he simply can’t. You are the reason that his great plans, his esoteric dreams, can be achieved. You are the one that gave him materiality and you are the one that gave him life. Without your soul’s warmth to fill the gaping cavity in his chest, he could not have survived on this earth. So, he will not forget you, he cannot.

For you are his saviour.


End file.
